


Knockout

by asuralucier



Category: Fight Club - All Media Types, John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Grief, Insomnia, Support Group, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-29 23:07:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19029814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: I don’t like support groups about emotions. But I can find some peace, Marla doesn’t touch these. She doesn’t have any feelings.He looks like death. The only thing that’s alive about him is the beagle that’s wriggling in his arms. Mike, the guy in charge, eyes the poor thing and asks if it’s going to piss everywhere.I can’t leave her alone, says John and just that sentence hits me in the solar plexus.The narrator fromFight Clubis forced to attend support groups centered around grief and depression to get away from Marla Singer. He meets a man and his dog.





	Knockout

**Author's Note:**

> An exercise in writing briefly - something less than 1k. I didn't expected it to be this but I just wanted try something abstract and different.
> 
> Now with a [translation in Mandarin Chinese](http://cielo77.lofter.com/post/1d1cf9b8_1c6085bf0) with thanks to cielo77 :).

I arrive early to St. Anthony’s Episcopal Church off Harkman and Lane. There are a few people helping set up folding plastic chairs and I try my best to blend into the background. Some woman, bone-skinny and possibly a bit blind, tapes a sign on the door at a crooked angle. **Grief Support, WEDNESDAYS 8PM**

In my blood is an enviable cocktail. Mirtazapine, Ambien, more Ambien, something else. I’m still wide awake. I’d say I miss Bob and hug time, but that’s neither here nor there. Every time I try to think about it, Marla’s there. Faker faker faker. 

Actually, my run-in with Marla has made me even more paranoid about other fakers. It’s five to eight, and people are filing in. Most of them seem to be regulars but the name tag is sacred. Like communion. I get handed one with a thick marker and I write JIMMY in big block capitals. Block Capitals are the Eucharist of Jesus Christ the Name Tag. 

But there’s a guy. Dressed all in black, no tie. Bruise at the side of his face that looks a couple of days old. He’s carrying a dog. Some of the women crowd around him and coo about how cute she is. 

The guy doesn’t say anything. 

I think the guy must be new. He doesn’t talk to anyone, takes a name tag, JOHN. 

I can’t tell if he’s a faker or not. But I know that there’s something wrong with him. Just like something’s wrong with me (and Marla). But probably not the same thing. 

 

I prefer diseases. Real diseases. Cancers, Parkinsons, Men with only one Testicle. Practical things. Certain measures; calculated results: high t-cell counts, iron deficiencies. I even like AIDS. Prefer AIDS. Like’s a strong word.

I don’t like support groups about emotions. But I can find some peace, Marla doesn’t touch these. She doesn’t have any feelings.

Grief is a weird one. Everyone feels it like a disease but maybe it also doesn’t really exist and you have to wade through a lot. Other people _not being able to explain how they feel_. The best you can do is a bunch of similes. Like a volcano rumbling in my kidney. Or personification - my heart is bleeding. But a heart is always bleeding.

Introductions. Before starting Mike, the guy in charge, looks at John’s dog. 

We uh, don’t really allow dogs in here. What Mike probably wants to know is whether the dog will piss everywhere. 

I can’t leave her alone, says John and just that sentence hits me in the solar plexus.

 

John’s wife died of some disease he had to read off of a post-it. Mike mentions another group that meets on Tuesdays for loved ones of those living with the disease. I note it down too. 

I don’t think I am grieving. But nobody believes me. 

 

John participates in hug time and the ladies all line up. If Marla were here, she’d think it was downright creepy. 

His dog sits by his chair, unmoving. I go to the dog and she stares at me. 

You can pet her if you want.

Not really a dog person, I say. 

I wasn’t really, either. 

 

What’s wrong with your eyes? 

I don’t know, I suspect it’s because I’ve spent the last 72 hours popping Ambien and other shit that I’ve already mentioned kind of. If you’re just looking at my pupils, I’m probably looking like I am having a great time. 

I am an insomniac. 

You should try working at night. 

Insomnia means you don’t sleep _at all_. Besides, I like my job. 

You like your job. 

Where does he get off telling me I don’t like my job? I don’t, but that’s my own business. Insurance. What’s not to like? 

He looks sorry for me. The guy’s wife just died and he and his dog look sorry for me. 

Would you like to go to sleep? John asks me this, like he’s dangling some sweet crack in front of me or something. I don’t do that stuff. I’d be up for months. 

I can’t. Unless I. I can’t admit I’m a faker. He’ll feel even sorrier for me. And I’m not faking anyway, my sleep is a personification, a vital part of my existence I miss so fucking damn much. 

But probably not as much as John and his dog miss the wife. 

Unless you what?

I clear my throat. Never mind. 

 

In the secluded corner of the parking lot a block away from St. Anthony’s, John hits me; once, twice, three times and I can’t get a punch in. And then I lose count. I get the feeling that he’s not even hitting me that hard. 

But I don’t mind. I think I’m even beginning to feel a bit sleepy. I am John’s rush of melatonin.


End file.
